


The Laughter in His Ears

by TimmyJaybird



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-02
Updated: 2014-01-02
Packaged: 2018-01-07 03:24:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1114902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TimmyJaybird/pseuds/TimmyJaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce holds a dying Joker, and realizes just how much the man means to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Laughter in His Ears

Bruce cradled the body in his arms, limp and slick in the cold night rain. The water that ran in rivets from his body was rich in shades of pink and red, splashing against Bruce’s boots and legs.

 

“Dammit,” he cursed, shaking the body in his arms gently. “Wake up!” The Joker’s face stayed slack, those acidic eyes hidden by heavy lids. Bruce gritted his teeth and cradled him against his chest with one arm, the other reaching beneath his jacket, gauntlet slicking with the hot blood pulsing out from the bullet wound in his chest. He screamed for a paramedic, felt the eyes of the Gotham police force staring at him as he pressed against the wound, trying to stave off the bleeding.

“Don’t die on me, you bastard,” he said, vision growing hazy. Was he in shock? Bruce wasn’t sure, just knew his eyes were hot, stinging, couldn’t tell that he was crying against the heavy rain. He felt the blood pound against his palm and wondered what the _hell_ was taking so long to get a paramedic.

Worried he wasn’t at a good angle, he laid the Joker out on the wet pavement, straddling his hips to cover him with his cape, fight off the rain, and pressed both palms against his chest. “Open your eyes!” he screamed, only to get nothing. His fingers fug into the man’s shirt, twitching as Bruce began to shake from his core out.

He heard footsteps in the rain, only looked up to stare into the eyes of a scared looking officer.

“ _What_?!”

“ETA on the ambulance is two m-minutes,” he stuttered, and Bruce nearly growled.

“Too long, I need it here _now_!”

“S-sir, with all due respect, it’s the Joker-“

“I don’t give a fuck!” Which was a lie, and Bruce knew. If this wasn’t the Joker, he would be able to control the shaking in his limbs, the crazy pitter-patter of his heart. He’d be collected because they wouldn’t matter as much as the dying man beneath him. “Get me the officer who shot him,” he said through gritted teeth, looking back at the Joker. When he didn’t hear the officer move, he looked at him through the corners of his eyes, yelling, “Now!”

He turned and ran off, nearly slipping in his haste to get away from the Bat. Bruce looked back at the Joker, leaned his weight into his arms to press against the wound, bending until he was close to his face. The rain was rinsing off some of his make-up, and Bruce was sure it was the clearest he’d seen his face, outside of his stays in Arkham.

_All these years, and he never showed me his true face_.

If Bruce could spare the hand, he would have traced one of those scars. Would have ripped his gauntlet off and felt the puckered flesh, the plump curve of his lower lip. That red mouth he spent so much time staring at-

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, swallowed down those thoughts. He’d been fighting them for so long, those creeping thoughts that clawed into his consciousness and made him wonder what the Joker felt like, tasted like, moved like. What if their dance was _different_. What if Bruce gave the Joker what he asked for in his flirtatious moments-

What if Bruce liked it?

He bit his lip, didn’t open his eyes, just leaned down, knowing without seeing his target. His lips found the Joker’s, kissed them softly, gently. Cold, slack, he didn’t respond, and Bruce felt his eyes stinging behind his lids. When he pulled back and opened his eyes, he expected to see a set of laughing, bright green eyes staring back. Expected a grin and some snarky, sexual remark from the clown. Expected _life_.

All he saw were pale eyelids, greasepaint running with rainwater.

Bruce gave a choked sob, a broken sound, and suddenly felt hands on his arms, pulling him back. He moved, released the pressure of the man’s chest and stood on shaking legs, watched as the paramedics slipped him onto a stretcher, began their work.

Vaguely, he could hear someone calling his name. Bruce turned, saw the officer from earlier walking over, guiding another man. “You asked for him, Batman,” he said, voice shaking, but the other man didn’t seem nervous at all.

Bruce stared at him for a moment, before he pulled his fist back and knocked the new officer to the ground. The man cried out, and Bruce crouched over him, pulled him up by his collar and held him steady as he fist connected with his jaw again, again, and again.

“Batman, stop!” The voice of reason, something known, old, calling to him. Bruce froze, looked back, saw Gordon’s tired eyes staring into him. He released his hold on the man’s collar, stood up, waited in silence. “It’s over, Batman,” he said, looking away, “he’s gone.”

The words echoed in Bruce’s head, bounced off his skull, refused to dig their claws into his brain until he turned and looked at the ambulance, at the sheet they were throwing over the Joker’s body as they lifted him into it. _Gone_.

No more laughs. No more grins. No more crazy eyes that bore into him as the man moaned his name when he threw him against a wall. No more of those flittering fingertips dancing fire into the suit when Bruce would lift the man and threaten to drop him over the roof. No more of that obscene _love_ that Bruce refused to acknowledge-

Until it was gone.

“Batman-“ Gordon started, but Bruce turned away, watched as the ambulance disappeared, then was off into the night. He wasn’t sure where exactly he was going, let the Batpod meld with his spiraling intentions and drove through the city, made his way to Wayne Enterprises. He didn’t need to crack any codes, he could by pass security just because of _who he was_ , and rode, soaking wet and dripping, in the elevator to the top floor, where he took the stairs up to the roof.

Once there, the cold air blasted his face again, the rain still cold, heavier now, like a sheet he could barely see through. He trudged through it all, towards the lights of the city, stopping when the toes of his boots reached the edge.

Out there, no one knew what he’d lost. No one knew the part of him that had died beneath him, bleeding out into his fingertips, no one knew the last breath he took in the only kiss he’d ever granted the deranged man.

No one knew that half of Bruce was already dead.

He gritted his teeth, fisted his hands- wanted to pound into the man who had fired that shot. It had been unnecessary, Bruce had had the Joker subdued, ready for custody. Some rookie trying to make a name for himself by being the one to finally take the man down permanently. Some nobody, hoping that death could make them somebody, that he could rip the Joker’s notoriety from his blood and marrow and paint it onto his body, become what he wasn’t.

Someone that mattered.

Bruce could see those eyes behind his eyelids, that grin, those gloved hands. Could imagine the many things the man would say to the kiss, the ways he’d ask for another, remarks about how he _liked_ having Bruce on top of him like that- if only they had a _bit_ less clothing.

_Oh, but keep the mask sugar, we can have a little sub-dom play!_

Bruce almost chuckled. Almost. Instead he opened his eyes against the biting rain and told himself he’d never hear those things again, never feel the lithe man forcing him to the ground. Never again, because the Joker was dead.

Bruce looked down below, at the city streets he could barely see in the rain. Regretted then all the missed opportunities, told himself he should have kissed him the first time they danced. Maybe it would have changed things- maybe he could have prevented so much. Maybe they were both so fucked up that together they could at least _fake_ being normal. There would be no white picket fence normal, he knew, but maybe their every interaction wouldn’t lead the bruises and broken bones and aches that could last a week. Maybe it would have been nice.

He’d never know, and Bruce wasn’t sure he could take that. His fists were so tight his hands aches, and he looked up into the black sky, took one cold, chilled breath, and took that step.

The wind whistling in his ears sounded strangely like laughter.

**Author's Note:**

> Way to start the new year, with a death fic. I've had such terrible writer's block, that when this came to me I couldn't turn it away.


End file.
